The Nine Parts of Desire
by TheFicChick
Summary: You never really understand desire until you've seen a pregnant woman with a jar of peanut butter.
1. Part One: The First Month

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

* * *

**Part One: The First Month**

For the past four weeks, my wife has been living on saltine crackers.

As a doctor, and as the ex-husband of a neonatal surgeon, I've heard all about morning sickness and the havoc it wreaks on the lives (and stomachs) of pregnant women. And so, when we found out that Meredith was pregnant, I figured we would be facing a few mornings of queasiness and dashes to the bathroom.

Boy, was that an understatement.

Meredith has literally been living on saltines for nearly a month. She chokes down the occasional smoothie, piece of fruit or bite of chicken for the nutritional value, but more often that not it makes a reappearance not twenty minutes later. Saltine crackers are pretty much the only things that don't send her sprinting for the bathroom.

Saltines have become a staple in our life. Leaving the house? Grab the box off the counter. Hitting a restaurant? Tuck them in the purse. Watching a movie? Get used to the crunching from the other side of the couch. Slipping into bed after a long day at the hospital? Brush those crumbs out of the sheets beforehand. One time, early in the month, I made the disastrous mistake of forgetting the saltines. We were having dinner with Cristina and Burke, and were already running late, and I forgot to grab a pack from the stock we had accumulated in our pantry. Ten minutes into the car ride, Meredith asked me for the saltines, and I realized my mistake. By the time we got to the restaurant, not only had I pulled over twice to let her throw up, she had pretty much called me every name in the book and swore up and down she would never carry another child of mine. Oh, the joys of marriage.

See, Meredith's cute when she's mad. She's cute when she's upset, cute when she's freaking out… she's pretty much cute all the time.

And, to tell the truth, even pregnant, irate, almost-homicidal Meredith is damn near adorable.

But on that day, when I forgot to fulfill my simple responsibility of bringing the one thing that made my wife's life bearable – I was scared.

Not of my tiny, adorable wife and her tiny, ineffectual fists. No, I wasn't afraid of Meredith herself. But I was terrified of the fallout.

Because Meredith, as much as I love her, doesn't do anything halfway. And that includes freaking out. When something goes wrong, my adorable wife goes all out in her emotional reaction. And my forgetting the saltines apparently ranked pretty high on her catastrophe-meter. So, while our friends were waiting with our table at a gourmet restaurant in downtown Seattle, I ran in and out of three gas stations and a convenience store to find a box of saltines to help my wife make it through the evening.

A small price to pay, since she's currently playing incubator to my unborn child.

Thankfully, it worked. She was able to sit through the meal (in which I couldn't order anything with meat, since meat makes her especially queasy and I'm supposed to be showing my solidarity) without dashing to the ladies' room.

I feel bad, though, that it's only the first month and already it's been so rough on her. And while Meredith hasn't done the girly thing and blamed me for "doing this to her," I do feel the slightest bit guilty.

You see, Meredith and I hadn't planned to get pregnant. Not yet, anyway. The ink was barely dry on our marriage license, we spent two fantastic weeks in St. Barth's, came back to Seattle, and less than a month later, the stick turned blue. I think it's a little honeymoon baby, but, frankly, I had had countless opportunities to slip one past the goalie, so there's really no way of knowing. But I have a hunch.  
Life has a way of taking you by surprise.

I had thought I was ready for children after ten years of marriage to Addison, but she hadn't been ready. Then, with Meredith, I thought we'd settle down, get used to married life, then start talking about having kids. And, knowing Meredith's insecurities and doubts about family life, I thought it would take a little persuading on my part.

But, as usual, my girl took me by surprise. I was the more shocked of the two of us when the news finally hit. She seemed to take it in stride, shrugging and saying she had figured it would happen eventually, so it might as well be now.  
Part of me wonders if, despite the ring on my finger and my promise to spend forever with her, she still has lingering doubts about whether we'll last. Another part of me wonders if she just wants the family she never had as a kid. Either way, she's excited. And I'm excited.

Her excitement, however, has taken a backseat to her upchuck reflex.

She tells me to get used to it – in eight months, there'll be a whole new person in the house throwing up _on_ me.

---


	2. Part Two: The Second Month

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

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**Part Two: The Second Month**

When my wife spent four consecutive weeks eating virtually nothing but crackers, I have to admit, I was worried. You see, Meredith is what they call a petite woman. In fact, there isn't an ounce of fat on her. She's tiny. Wee.

Don't get me wrong – she eats like a horse. Sometimes she can even put me to shame – especially when it comes to pizza or ice cream. The girl can eat. But since she got pregnant right around Christmas, her body has been all over the place. The first month was pretty wretched – she literally couldn't keep anything in her stomach. I've heard about the horrors of morning sickness, but Meredith's pregnancy took it to a whole new level. And so, anytime she put anything significant in her stomach, it came back up again. And, as the worried husband – the worried _doctor _husband, I might add – I was worried that that tiny little body would suffer. Not to mention the even tinier body growing inside it.

But, thankfully, as the first month drew to a close, the queasiness subsided to just the occasional twinge and Meredith was able to move on from her diet of saltine crackers and water. She was, understandably, thrilled with this development. I guess after a month straight, crackers lose what little glamour they possess.

With the second month, however, came the onset of the famous pregnancy cravings. And for my wife, the first craving was peanut butter. I have to admit, the first time I actually witnessed her satisfying the craving I was somewhat taken aback. It would have seemed normal to me to come home from work to see my beautiful wife indulging in a peanut butter sandwich. Or perhaps a slice of apple dipped in peanut butter. But no. When I arrived home from work one evening, I walked into the bedroom to see her sitting in bed with a spoon and a jar of Jif. No bread. No crackers (not surprising). No fruit. Just the spoon and the jar. Which, by the way, was almost empty. My beautiful, pregnant, petite wife had consumed nearly an entire jar of peanut butter as she sat in bed watching infomercials. And, to be honest, it was kind of cute.

But it didn't stop there.

As the days rolled by and the craving persisted, Meredith, who always smelled like a combination of clean laundry, vanilla, and what I have since learned is lavender, began smelling remarkably like peanut butter. She ate it on everything, including, as a particular favorite, on her baked potato. More than once, I even had to alert her that she was sporting some of the spread in her hair. (On one especially alarming occasion, she took her hair in her mouth and _sucked _the peanut butter out. Having been on the receiving end of more than one withering stare in recent weeks, I opted to keep my mouth shut.)

The craving, of course, wasn't limited to the occasional jar. Our house became a microcosm of supply-and-demand: she demanded, I supplied. Reese's Pieces, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (and, contrary to what I thought, there _is _a difference between the two; apparently a strong enough difference to warrant my making a second trip to get the _right _Reese's candy), Nutter Butters, five different variations of peanut butter ice cream… if it had the beloved ingredient, it was on the list.

Of course, we hit the occasional snag – generally in the form of my finishing off the jar to make myself a sandwich or a snack and not replacing it within fifteen minutes before she had the chance to realize it was gone. My cute little wife can have quite a mouth on her when she's mad – not to mention the creative slew of insults she can hurl from that sweet little mouth of hers. Feisty. I like that.

But the only time we ran into a real problem was when the peanut butter got in the way of the sex.

It had been awhile. Understandably, since Meredith had spent the better part of a month hugging the toilet. But it had been awhile, and going from hot-and-heavy to cold-and-celibate had been jarring, to say the least. One night, Meredith, my little minx of a wife, suggested combining our two favorite things (mine being the sex, and hers – at least for the moment – being the peanut butter).

Like any husband, I like to believe that the sight of my naked body sends my wife into a lustful frenzy. On that night, however, I can't be sure if it was the sight of my naked body or the tub of Peter Pan peanut butter sitting on the nightstand. I was excited. She was excited. Things were going well, until she got distracted by the peanut butter to the point that I pretty much could have left the room without her noticing.

The night didn't end well. Certainly not as well as I had anticipated.

That was the last time Peter Pan was allowed in my bedroom.

---


	3. Part Three: The Third Month

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

* * *

**Part Three: The Third Month**

OK. I get that pregnancy cravings are weird, irrational, arbitrary things. I get that. I do. And I'm a doctor, so I understand how the human body can undergo things and experience sensations that have no rhyme or reason. I get it.

But seriously? Meredith may have the weirdest pregnancy craving in the history of weird pregnancy cravings.

My beautiful, quirky, pregnant wife is obsessed with the smell of nail polish.

Nail polish.

Seriously.

I'm not entirely sure how this compares to the peanut butter. At least I understood that in that case, it had something to do with my lima bean-sized child, demanding things of her that she couldn't deny. She was responding to the demands of our little McNugget.

But this? It makes no sense.

And, honestly, I thought I was used to Meredith and the way that things didn't always make sense with her. But this… this is just odd. I suppose, in a roundabout way, it makes _some _sense, since, anatomically speaking, our sense of smell is directly connected to our sense of taste. I guess, by that logic, I should be thankful she doesn't want to _drink _the stuff. But still. It's weird.

The first day of the latest craving, I walked into the house and thought she had decided to paint the nursery without me. Because as soon as I stepped into the foyer, I smelled paint. I peeked into the room, but it was empty, and the walls were still the same eggshell white they had been when we built the house.

I explored the rest of the house and finally tracked her down to the master bathroom. Where, I might add, she was sitting, in a tank top and panties, surrounded by bottles of nail polish and cotton balls smeared in a rainbow of colors. As it was, my pregnant wife had been sitting on that bathroom floor, painting, unpainting, and repainting her nails for three hours. At first, I thought it was a moment of vanity. Something along the lines of, "The rest of my body may look like crap"—her words, not mine—"but my fingernails can still look hot."

Nope.

She just couldn't get enough of the smell.

I was concerned that the fumes, in addition to pushing my admittedly unpredictable wife over the edge, may have harmed our unborn child. But Addison, in her infinite neonatal and womanly wisdom, assured me that nail polish fumes are relatively harmless. Provided the ventilation is OK.

I made Meredith paint her nails with the windows open after that.

And so I got used to seeing Meredith with different-colored fingernails every few hours. She seemed to be satisfying her craving and delighted in having pretty nails when she felt like the rest of her body was betraying her. I was even getting into it, buying her assorted and unusual shades anytime I was in the grocery store or drug store. I even asked Izzie where she had gotten a color she wore to the hospital once, because it had little glittery things in it, and Meredith didn't own any shades with little glitteries. Thank God my wife is carrying my child – it affirms my masculinity when I damage it by asking where to buy nail polish.

So anyway, things were going well – Meredith was sniffing to her heart's content, I was spending a small fortune on cosmetics, and things were progressing nicely.

But then, of course, we hit a snag.

Meredith's nails began to split. Apparently the repeated painting and excessive use of nail polish remover had taken its toll and Mer's nails had become brittle and flimsy.

Once again, she played the "I'm carrying your child and you are required to cater to my every whim" card. Which is how I found myself sporting hot pink nail polish on my $2-million-a-year hands. Frankly, it made my hands look uglier. Almost scary. Maybe it's the dark hair that adorns my knuckles, but something about it just looked… gruesome.

And, of course, inevitably, there was the time when I let her paint them after midnight and forgot to take it off before my 6 a.m. shift. Thankfully, only the Chief saw me before I had the chance to realize my mistake. After that, I limited my wife to my toenails, which I could hide in my socks.

Today, if you must know, they are fire engine red.

---


	4. Part Four: The Fourth Month

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

* * *

**Part One: The Fourth Month**

It's April. You know, as in "April showers bring May flowers." Except in Seattle, it's more like "April showers bring occasional snow flurries and winter colds." So you can imagine my concern at the fact that my wife is currently walking around in our backyard barefoot.

I have recently come to the realization that I am a subscriber to patriarchal values. Because honestly, the idea of my wife barefoot and pregnant does something to my insides. Something that makes me want to get in my car and drive home to her, even when I'm elbow-deep in someone's cranium. The feminist in Meredith would probably smack me upside the head if I admitted that to her, but it's true. I love it.

But the idea of her barefoot outside in the damp cold isn't filling me with warm-and-happy. If I weren't afraid of the recently-christened "pregger-daggers," I'd convey that thought to her. However, since I do value my testicles, which she threatened _last _time I suggested doing something for her own good, I keep my mouth shut and watch her through the window above the sink.

She's not doing anything specific. She's just walking around the yard, slow and steady, her little bump of a belly peeking out over her pajama pants and a steaming mug of decaf coffee in her hand.

This scene is a result of the latest of Meredith's pregnancy cravings: bare feet.

I learned last month that Meredith's pregnancy would not be a normal one. No demanding Chinese food at 2 a.m. for my wife. No, that I was actually prepared for. But after a month of watching her sniff nail polish, I learned quickly that the months ahead would be nothing if not unpredictable. Granted, she's had the occasional food craving. After the peanut butter, she'd occasionally get a hankering for something bizarre, like popcorn with chocolate sauce, or something random, like raw spinach (for a week straight), but generally her food cravings have been pretty minimal.

My wife never does the expected. Which is why, in her fourth month of pregnancy, Meredith's "craving" is bare feet. Apparently, thanks to the pregnancy hormones and the myriad of changes her body is going through, the nerves in the bottoms of her feet are hypersensitive, and any chance she gets, the socks come off.

I suppose I should be thankful. I've heard from more than one source that many times, by the fourth month, the husband is already run ragged filling the demands of his pregnant wife. But apart from the occasional toenail-painting session, Meredith's demands on me have pretty much halted since the second month, when she needed peanut butter (and needed it _now_).

These days, as long as I don't tell her to put her socks on, she pretty much exists in her own happy little pregnancy-craving, barefooted bubble.

I do worry about those little toes, though.

But I have to admit, Meredith's weird hankerings have kept me entertained. And not only because they're fun to watch. With the nail polish, I got into trying to find unusual and fun colors that she didn't already have, and the grin on her face when I bestowed them upon her – well, I just hope our kid gets that same expression on Christmas morning. When I came home at the end of the month with a bottle of iridescent purple that turned green when you looked at it a certain way, I admit I was disappointed to learn that she had lost her interest in nail polish.

This month, I've tried to contribute to her cravings, but the opportunities have been few and far between. After two occasions of wandering around the backyard with her, I realized that she wasn't interested in company or conversation – she was just trying to scratch an itch. And, frankly, traipsing around my own land, as beautiful as it is, isn't what I want to be doing at 5 a.m. before a marathon shift. So I left her to it, content to monitor her steps from the kitchen window.

A few times, however, I got into it.

Once, I found a pair of slippers that had foot-massaging bumps on the insoles. I was pleased when she was thrilled and wore them all around the house (but still, they took a backseat to the feel of grass and she kicked them off anytime she went outside).

Then, I drove her half an hour to go walk in the sand – an excursion that won me my own hour of paradise when we got home. (But which, I must add, was followed by an hour-long foot massage for her.)

Another time I found a heating and massaging foot bath and brought it home for her (another hour of paradise for Dr. Shepherd).

Probably my favorite part about the latest craving is the way Meredith rubs her feet against me anytime we're sitting or laying near each other. Watching a movie on the couch, she'll edge her feet underneath me and rub them back and forth against the undersides of my thighs. In bed, she rubs them against mine until she falls asleep – and sometimes even does it in her sleep, which may just be the cutest thing she's done yet.

If this is where the "barefoot and pregnant" cliché came from, you can call me Mr. Patriarchy. Because I love it.

---


	5. Part Five: The Fifth Month

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

* * *

**Part Five: The Fifth Month**

When we found out we were going to have a baby, Addison bought us a baby gift: two copies of _What to Expect When You're Expecting_. When I asked her about it, she said that we should each have our own copy, since it's a good reference tool. And, she said, unless I wanted to be divorced a second time, I needed to make sure I got things right during the next nine months.

And so the neurology journals took a backseat to the book that was the bible of expectant mothers everywhere, which became the main reading material in my briefcase.

It's amazing, how life as an expectant father can damage your masculinity.

So I was learning everything there was to learn about life as a pregnant woman – and, in some cases, more than I really wanted to know. And I was almost prepared for Meredith's fifth-month craving – far more prepared than I had been for the previous two.

She's become a nester.

Meredith, who hates to clean and usually can't find two socks that match, has become my own little pop-bellied version of Martha Stewart. It's the "nesting phase," according to the _Expecting_ gurus.

Each time my wife starts experiencing a new craving, I'm usually caught off-guard when it makes its first appearance. This time was no exception. I walked into the house after a long day at the hospital and suddenly, I was on my back with Meredith staring down at me from above. "I just finished the floors," was her explanation. By "finished," she meant vacuumed, mopped and oiled (in the case of our hardwood foyer).

Now, let me back up. I said already that Meredith hates to clean. That doesn't even come close to describing it. Until recently, I'm pretty sure she didn't even know where we kept the dustpan.

Me, on the other hand – I cook, I clean, I do dishes… I'm domesticated. I suppose that's what comes from growing up surrounded by five women.

Meredith, as much as I love her, is about the farthest thing from a housewife you can get. Her idea of cooking is throwing some spaghetti in a pot and managing to keep it from burning and congealing on the bottom. Her idea of cleaning is sweeping laundry and books under the bed. Instead of ironing something, she'll throw it in the dryer for ten minutes. I love her to death, but Suzie homemaker she's definitely not.

Even though the _Expecting _people described the "urge to nest" that bubbled up in many pregnant women, I kind of expected Meredith to skip that step. But once again, my girl went for the unexpected.

Suddenly, our house was the epitome of cleanliness and order. A far cry from its usual lived-in, chaotic appearance. And Meredith, as usual, took it to the extreme. The DVDs were alphabetized. The bookshelves were organized according to genre, then subcategorized by subject matter, then alphabetized by author. The pantry and refrigerator were cleaned out. All the junk drawers were cleaned out. Laundry was done, dusting was frequent, even my sock and underwear drawers were organized.

Once again, I misunderstood the motivation behind my wife's newfound need to clean. I thought it was her need to be busy, to feel productive. Of course, I was wrong. Apparently it was hormonal – something along the lines of the fact that my kiwi-sized progeny would be unwilling to appear in four months' time unless his or her living quarters were immaculate. And, while Meredith is more than willing to argue with me, my offspring apparently cannot be argued with.

And so, when I disrupted the newly established order of the Chateau Shepherd, boy, did I hear about it.

I honestly had no idea that my draping my coat over the banister and leaving my briefcase on the floor in the foyer was indicative of my contempt for my wife's hard work. (Her words, obviously.) She stalked me to the den, where I was happily watching ESPN and enjoying a cold beer, and stood right in my view of the TV, hands on her hips and daggers in her eyes. I glanced over to my drink, which, by the grace of God, I had remembered to place on a coaster, and then raised an eyebrow in her direction. Not a smart move. Apparently, the only thing worse than my not hanging up my coat was _forgetting _that I hadn't hung up my coat, and thereby "not appreciating the hard work she puts into this house."

After that, I made sure to hang my jacket in the closet.

The boxer drawer, however, is once again in disarray.

---


	6. Part Six: The Sixth Month

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

* * *

**Part Six: The Sixth Month**

My wife has been a good sport. For the past six months, as her body has stopped being hers and started belonging more and more to the mini-Mer developing inside it, she has taken pretty much everything in stride. She handled a solid month of throwing up like a champ. She dealt with gaining weight and her body's changes with a shrug of acceptance. My wife is a trooper.

But now, as her second trimester comes to a close, Meredith is getting frustrated. She wants coffee, and she wants it _now. _

Six months ago, when the stick turned blue and we realized that a mini-Shepherd was on the way, Meredith gave up all her vices. No more tequila. No more sushi. No more coffee.

She was OK with the tequila thing. She joked that since I had managed to pull my head out of my ass and, quote, "get my shit together," she didn't have the hankering for Jose that she'd had when I was still figuring things out with Addison. So that relinquishment was relatively painless. The sushi surrender was bearable, since she ate it only once a week or so, but every now and again she's had the craving for a spicy tuna roll. The coffee, however, has been a struggle.

For Meredith, going from roughly ten cups a day to zero has been an adjustment, to say the least. Coffee was her breakfast, lunch, dinner, midday snack, late-night treat… it was her sustenance. She drank it to wake up, to calm down, to study, to unwind, to socialize… she used it to do pretty much everything. And the realization that she'd have to kiss it goodbye was a tough one to stomach.

For the first six months, however, she took it like a champ. She was determined to be the picture of healthy living while she was carrying our child, and so the coffee – along with everything else ever determined to be remotely detrimental to an unborn child – was verboten. No low birth weight or preterm labor for us. Meredith was determined to go by the book.

But now, as the second trimester nears its end, Meredith has a major java jones.

At first, she was able to satisfy the desire by simply lingering by the coffee cart for awhile during her lunch break. But the satisfaction she got from that didn't last long.

Soon, the smell wasn't enough, and she had to have the taste. She tried the lightweight drinks… a decaf latte from the coffee cart. A decaf frappuccino from Starbucks. Decaf instant Folgers in the morning. I don't know if it was the knowledge that the true addictive component was missing or what, but these attempts to trick her palate failed miserably. If anything, they only worsened the craving, giving her a hint of the forbidden treasure, dangling it in front of her and then snatching it away.

I tried providing her with coffee-flavored things, hoping that they'd be able to do what the decaf drinks hadn't. I brought her coffee ice cream. Coffee-flavored Nips. Coffee cake. The closest I came to providing her any true satisfaction was the day I caved and bought her a small bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans. I told her I was keeping them, but I'd give her a few every day, knowing that if I left the whole bag in her possession, they'd be gone in minutes flat. I figured the minor hit of true caffeine couldn't hurt, and the boost it would give her spirits would be well worth it. It worked. Until, of course, I ran out of the beans and had to go out at 11 p.m. to find a store that sold the gourmet treat.

And, as with pretty much all of Meredith's cravings, daily life has taken a backseat to her longing. Her friends have stopped drinking coffee in her presence, since she tends to lose all focus on the conversation at hand the minute she gets a whiff of the coffee. As Cristina explained not so delicately, Meredith turns into a drooling, preoccupied java junkie whenever they drink it in front of her. So they've made every attempt not to drink it around her. And, given that they've all got cups of the stuff pretty much glued to their hands whenever they're not holding scalpels… well, my sensitive, moody, pregnant wife is developing somewhat of a complex.

I have to add that this is the first month since the peanut butter incident that she has ever threatened me as a direct result of her craving. Since Meredith is no longer able to enjoy the euphoria of a caffeine fix, neither am I.

And I don't know if it's women's intuition or what, but she is freakishly in tune with it. The one day I cheated and had a cup of the "leaded" coffee from the cart, she tasted it on me when she kissed me hello before her shift. Her eyes narrowed, she licked her lips, and she jabbed one finger in my face and planted the other on her hip. "You _cheated!_" she accused. After a disbelieving look from a nurse – staring at my pregnant wife accusing me of adultery probably didn't help my reputation any – I ushered her away and apologized profusely, offering the lame excuse that I had a partial lobotomy scheduled and needed the pick-up.

Honestly, the threats that come out of that cute little mouth. They'd make a sailor blush.

---


	7. Part Seven: The Seventh Month

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews; the encouragement is much appreciated! Here's the chapter many of you have been waiting for... happy reading.**

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**Part Seven: The Seventh Month**

OK. This is hands down, without a doubt, my favorite month of Meredith's pregnancy. No arguments. I suppose I shouldn't rule out the possibility that the eighth or ninth month could be my favorite, but I don't see how that's possible.

Because now, two months before our child is due to enter the world, I, Derek Shepherd… am having an obscene amount of sex.

Yep. You heard that right.

My seven-months-pregnant wife has moved on to a new craving, and it's one that I'm only too happy to oblige.

Let me back up a bit. Pregnant women are notoriously self-conscious. They think they're fat. They feel hideous. They believe they've gotten uglier as their bellies have grown. As a man, allow me to put those fears to rest: pregnant women are hot. Now, I don't mean that I'd go cruising for pregnant chicks. I mean that there is literally nothing in the world more beautiful to a man than the woman carrying his child. Trust me on this. Give me my pregnant wife in one of my sweatshirts over Jennifer-Love-whatever-her-name-is in a string bikini any day. Meredith, of course, thinks I'm lying when I tell her this, but it's the truth. My wife is hot – that fact was never in debate. But my pregnant wife may be even hotter.

Meredith is lucky – she's a cute pregnant person. (Addison's words – not mine.) Apparently, some women just grow round tummies and it looks like someone stuffed a basketball under their t-shirts, while the rest of their bodies stay relatively in proportion. Other women gain weight everywhere, from their necks to their ankles. According to Addison, Meredith's one of the lucky women who has a basketball tummy. If you ask me, even if Meredith had turned potato-shaped, I'd still think she was hot.

Anyway, despite her status as cute-pregnant, she's still self-conscious about her body. So the first time the latest craving hit, she was kind of shy about saying anything. She just started acting kind of squirmy. We were watching a movie and she couldn't sit still. I asked her if she was OK, and she said she was fine. She fidgeted for about ten more minutes before she leaned in and starting gently kissing the side of my neck. I started to catch on, so by the time her mouth made its way up to my earlobe and she flicked it with her tongue – a red-hot button for me – I had gotten the message loud and clear. She was in my arms and being carried to the bedroom in seconds flat.

The next few times she'd just gaze at me for a few minutes and then start with the neck-kissing again. That was when I caught on to the fact that this was the latest craving and not just a particularly lustful week. And when I realized that I potentially had a whole month of sex ahead of me – well, I was pretty pumped.

After that, anytime she would even look at me for longer than a few seconds, I was ready. It was every night. Most mornings. Sometimes smack in the middle of the day, or right in the middle of dinner. I even had some pretty acrobatic sex in a certain Seattle Grace supply closet. It was fantastic. Not to mention the fact that Meredith has been modeling some pretty hot lingerie – I can't explain it, but something about seeing the woman I love wearing a satin slip over the belly we _both _love… it does something to my insides. Not to mention what it does to the rest of me. So we were having more sex than I think I've ever had in my life – much like the beginning of our relationship, minus the glow-in-the-dark condoms.

Three weeks into the month, however, it started to catch up with me. I don't know where my seven-months-pregnant wife found the endless supply of energy, but I was exhausted. I mean, I'm almost forty. I'm not a teenager anymore. (Teenage me, however, would have been wildly ecstatic to learn how much sex was in his future.) And besides, I was worried that all that… activity… might not be good for the baby. I mean, I'm a doctor, I know the basics… but seven months along is pretty far into a pregnancy, and by that point the fetus is relatively aware of what's going on. So I had concerns.

You can imagine my discomfort asking just how dangerous it was, given that the only OB/GYN I know – apart from Meredith's – is my ex-wife. Thankfully, Addison has always been a classy and discreet woman, and after she got over the initial surprise and gave me an eyebrow-raise and a smirk, she assured me that we weren't endangering our unborn child. She also assured me that this particular craving isn't all that unusual – I guess I haven't gotten to that part of _Expecting _yet. I tried to hide my relief when she told me that it would more than likely subside soon.

Thank God.

So, for the next week or so, I'm going to make the most of the fact that Meredith can't get enough of me. Especially since, in a few months' time, I'll be back to being virtually celibate. I'm going to take pleasure in the fact that I'm the only thing that can satisfy my little minx of a wife. And I'm going to try and forget that once, not too long ago, she expressed the same satisfaction for a jar of Jif.

---


	8. Part Eight: The Eighth Month

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

* * *

**Part Eight: The Eighth Month**

Hola. Me llamo Derek Shepherd. Una cerveza, por favor.

That's all I've gotten so far, but I'm sure that by the end of the month, my vocabulary will have grown tremendously. We're in the eighth month, counting down, and Meredith can't get enough Mexican food. It's only the third real food craving, not counting the saltines, and, like all of her other cravings, it's pretty amusing. We've become regulars at Azteca, to the point where the female waitresses come bustling up whenever we enter and place their hands on Meredith's stomach.

Now usually, strangers touching her bump irritates her, but in the case of the Mexican servers, she doesn't seem to mind too badly. Maybe it's because she realizes that they're what stands between her and the holy grail.

Chips and salsa.

Guacamole dip.

Steak fajitas.

Enchiladas.

Quesadillas. Tacos. Burritos. Mojitos. (Well, not lately.) Meredith lets them touch her tummy and ooh and aah over her still-growing bump. She listens to the two older ones argue about whether it's a girl or a boy – they both seem to have it on good authority what gender our child is. Given that Meredith and I opted to be surprised, we just smile and nod in agreement, assuring them both that we think they're right. 

After they usher us to our table and place the complimentary chips and salsa in front of us, Meredith sets about satisfying her craving. And let me tell you… my girl can put on a clinic.

Starter of chips and salsa as well as chips and white sauce.

Throw in a cheese dip.

Add a guacamole dip.

Split a chicken quesadilla appetizer. (And by "split," I mean put the plate in the middle of the table, and I eat one-sixth of it.)

Steak fajitas. Extra rice.

Two crunchy tacos on the side.

Churros with chocolate sauce for dessert.

Occasionally, she'll throw in a virgin margarita just for kicks.

And God help anyone who gets in her way.

On one particularly alarming occasion, one of the newer male servers was lingering by the table, making conversation with Meredith instead of placing her order. Frankly, we were both getting irritated – me, because I'm pretty sure he was hitting on my very-pregnant wife, and Meredith, because she wanted her steak fajitas _yesterday_. She practically agreed to name our kid Paco just to get the guy to go in the kitchen and place her order. I mean, I'm all for ethnically diverse names, but Paco? Not a snowball's chance in hell.

Meredith, sensing my irritation, made a joke out of it, agreeing that "Paco Shepherd" didn't quite ring, although we should give some serious consideration to Jose, since it was thanks to a bottle by the same name that she took me home that first night. I told her maybe as a middle name.

Between meals, Meredith can usually be found with a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa nearby. The shelf in our pantry that has been reserved for the food-of-the-month currently looks like we're planning one hell of a fiesta – tortilla chips in a variety of sizes and shapes (some, apparently, are better for "scooping"), salsas from mild to burn-your-mouth-out hot, and more jars of salsa con queso dip than Meredith could possibly finish by the end of the month.

Even our breakfasts have taken on a Mexican flavor. I gotta say, the Saturday morning I greeted my wife with a breakfast-in-bed tray of huevos rancheros and a breakfast burrito… well, let's just say that for a few hours afterward, I thought we were in month seven all over again.

The most amusing part of all of this is the aftermath.

Mexican food – and beans, in particular – are notorious for… well, you know. Meredith is the cutest burper ever. If it's possible for someone to be a cute burper. The little, girly burps that sneak past her lips are cute, and the way she blushes and clamps her hand over her mouth is even cuter. And, when she visits a town a little south of burpsville… well, she won't meet my eyes for a good ten minutes.

I mean… I'm a doctor. She's a doctor. But still. That's quality comedy, right there.

---


	9. Part Nine: The Last Month

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

* * *

**Part Nine: The Last Month**

My wife is in pain. OK, not serious pain. Not the kind of pain that both of us, as surgeons, see every day. Not train-accident, pole-through-the-abdomen, nails-in-the-skull, tree-through-the-torso pain. She's just… uncomfortable. Although, in the case of her swollen feet, it's pain.

For the first time in nine months, my wife isn't really craving anything. With the exception of the unrelenting desire to have our child _out _of her already. After nine long months, after cravings of peanut butter and nail polish, after months of lugging around a steadily growing basketball, Meredith is ready to be done.

She misses being able to see her feet. She misses being able to wear jeans. She misses being able to run (not that she runs, but, as she put it when I pointed that out, "Having the option would be nice.") She misses not being pregnant.

What I'm not telling her is that, while I can't wait to meet our kid, I'll almost be sorry to lose pregnant-Meredith. First and foremost, pregnant-Meredith has been a trip. From her weird and wacky cravings to the frustrated slew of curse words and insults hurled in my general direction, pregnant-Meredith has provided me with a lot of entertainment. Secondly, pregnant-Meredith is cute. She's all irrational emotion. (OK, so regular-Meredith has those moments, too. But pregnant-Meredith is irrational emotion, squared.) She's all frustration and irritation, in a way that's cute and makes me smile, which, of course, just pisses her off even more.

Like I said. Entertainment.

But, mainly, pregnant-Meredith has let me in. You see, Meredith is fiercely independent. Having learned more and more about her childhood, I have the sneaking – and saddening – suspicion that she's always been that way. Not out of desire, but out of necessity. Because no one, particularly her parents, who were too caught up in their own drama, has ever really taken care of Meredith, and so she's become pretty accustomed to taking care of herself. And even after we got back together, after I put a rock on her finger and asked her to spend the rest of her life with me, after I told her that I was going to spend the rest of my life taking care of her, Meredith still made it clear that she could take care of herself. When she needed something, whether she knew what it was or not, she rarely asked for it.

But, when Baby Shepherd came into the equation and she needed saltine crackers more than anything on earth… she asked. When she was so nauseous she couldn't leave the bathroom and I wanted to hold her hair back and rub her back… she let me. When she had a craving she couldn't kick, or an itch she needed to scratch, she let me help her. And each and every time Meredith looked at me with beseeching eyes and asked me for help… it did something to my insides that I'm really going to miss. I knew having a baby would bring us closer together. I just didn't realize that it would start before the baby even got here. All I know is, if our kid has her eyes and uses them to plead with me the way she has… well, I'm a goner. I wonder how it feels, to be wrapped around two different people's fingers.

I guess if post-pregnancy Meredith goes back to being all self-sufficient and independent, I'm just going to have to make sure we make a lot of little Shepherd babies. Because now that I'm in, I'm planning on staying in.

So, as I said, Meredith is dying to give birth. She's eating spicy foods. She's taking long walks. We're having sex. I'm doing my utmost to help her get what she so desperately wants: labor onset. But no, apparently our unborn child already takes after its mother when it comes to stubbornness and is choosing this point in time to illustrate it.

She's even tried to _bribe _our in-utero child. Promises of all the toys an infant could want, plus a car of his or her choice as a 16th birthday present… Meredith has pretty much already spoiled the kid, just trying to persuade him or her to make an appearance, already.

She has also sworn that until modern medicine discovers a way for men to bear children, Baby Shepherd is going to be an only child because, and I quote, "There is no way in hell I'm doing this to myself again." I'm counting on Addison being right about the fact that, once the baby's here, Meredith will forget about all the pain, including the labor itself. Because I've always wanted a big family. And besides… I think next time, I'll be better-prepared for month seven. I'm determined to keep up when baby number two kicks Meredith's hormones into high gear – I can't be the guy whose wife, at seven months pregnant, had a better sex drive. No way.

Which just goes to show…

OH. A very happy Meredith just informed me that we've gotta go. Apparently, her stubbornness won out over our child's, and the contractions have started. All I can say is, welcome to life with Meredith, kid. She'll get ya every time.

---

**A/N: Don't worry. The fat lady isn't singing quite yet. More to come. Thanks for reading.  
**


	10. Part Ten: The Last Day

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

* * *

**Part Nine: The Last Day****  
**

Allow me, if you will, to paint a picture called "Meredith in Labor." Or, perhaps more accurately, "The Scariest Day of My Life, Wherein My Wife Threatened My Manhood and Told Me She Loved Me in the Same Thirty Seconds."

Meredith was wildly ecstatic with the onset of labor pains. Most women kind of panic when they realize that they've begun the early stages of labor. They tend to get nervous. Meredith was pumped. She could not _wait _to get the seven-pound basketball out of her tiny body. She was a week ahead of schedule, but boy, was she ready.

And it's funny – I like to drive fast. I have always liked to drive fast, and if I hadn't been a doctor, I think I'd have been a race car driver. And, frankly, I figured that if there were any point in time where it was OK to stretch the speed limit a bit, it would be when you have a deep-breathing, broken-watered pregnant woman in the passenger seat. But, as it turns out, I suddenly became a cautious driver. With my wife focusing on the first stages of her Lamaze breathing and assuring me that she was OK, I was suddenly adhering to speed limits and, wonder of all wonders, braking for yellow lights instead of speeding up to get through them.

When we finally got to the hospital – a trip that usually took me fifteen minutes, but this time had taken twenty-five – the nurses ushered Meredith into a wheelchair and gave me the paperwork to fill out as they wheeled her down the hall. Now I understand why people get so pissed off when hospital administration bothers them with mundane details like paperwork when they have a loved one in some operating room or delivery room in another part of the hospital. You would think, since they know me, and they know Meredith, and they're the ones who _sign _my paychecks, for Christ's sake, that they could get me to sign on the dotted line at a later date. But no. They're sticklers, these medical-types.

Now, I have often wondered what it's like to be on the other end of the doctor-patient equation. As a doctor, you rarely get the chance to experience it in its purest form because, let's face it, you're a doctor, and the doctor talking to you _knows _you're a doctor, and so you converse in doctor-speak. But I got a little taste of what it must be like when my wife's OB/GYN – a very nice guy whom Addison recommended – came in to examine my wife. It's surreal, talking doctor-speak and watching some guy's forearm disappear into the woman you love. Very bizarre, indeed.

Another thing about being a doctor – there's no anonymity within hospital walls. All of Meredith's friends had gotten wind that their friend was in labor and they paraded through periodically to check on her progress and, in more than one particularly bizarre moment, to gossip about various tidbits of drama in their lives. I've said it before and I'll say it again – my girl's a trooper. She managed to act interested in the irrelevant details of her friends' lives while something roughly the size of a watermelon was making its way out of her tiny body.

Thankfully, her labor was progressing relatively quickly, and before we knew it, the contractions were pretty much on top of each other.

What I also didn't anticipate, being a doctor and being a relatively level-headed guy, was that when the time came, it would scare the crap out of me. I mean, not only was it a day when my wife was actually _on _the patient side of the equation, but it was the day when we, the Shepherds, were becoming a party of three. No longer would we be a party of two. No longer were we a couple – now, we were a family. And we would be for the rest of our lives. And as thrilled as I was about it, there was also a tiny bit of anxiety over the whole thing.

Thankfully, my own fear didn't have time to really take hold, because Meredith – who had been cool as a cucumber and practically cheering for her contractions – began her own panic.  
"Promise me you'll remarry."  
"What?"  
"Promise me you'll find someone else."  
"What are you talking about?"  
"If I die. I want you to be happy. Although… if you could just not get back together with Addison. But anyone else. Anyone else would be fine."  
"Meredith."  
"What?"  
"You're not going to die."  
Allaying her fears did a great deal to put my own to rest, and by the time the whole thing really got started, I was pretty much over the "Oh my God, I'm going to be a father" bit.

So there we were, Meredith pushing and occasionally cursing at me for repeatedly telling her how well she was doing. There were doctors and nurses, machines and mirrors, pushing and pulling, coaxing and coaching, and then, awhile later, the doctor asked me if I wanted to see.

And that was the first time I laid eyes on my child. I mean _actually _laid eyes on my child, and not on some grainy sonogram photo that, frankly, could have been a picture of a rubber chicken, for all I could see. I glanced up at Meredith, her hair curling with sweat and sticking to her neck, her eyes squeezed shut and her teeth clenched as she winced in pain, and I was torn as to which one I wanted to watch more. I eventually tore my eyes away from my beautiful wife and watched my daughter come into the world. I cut the cord and repositioned myself next to my wife while they cleaned the baby off and then wrapped her in a blanket and placed her on Meredith's chest. She bit her lip as tears slid down her cheeks and she reached out a finger and gently stroked our daughter's cheek before glancing up at me and smiling. I leaned down and kissed her gently, then gazed down at the baby on her chest and gently touched her head.

Shepherd, party of three – your life is waiting.

---

**A/N: There will be an epilogue. Stay tuned.**


	11. Epilogue: Cravings

**The Nine Parts of Desire**

_The title for this story is taken from the book "The Nine Parts of Desire: The Hidden World of Islamic Women" by Geraldine Brooks._

**Disclaimer: **In the words of the great Phoebe Buffay: "Not-not-mine, not-not-mine, not-not-mine."

* * *

**Epilogue: Cravings**

OK. I spent the last nine months making fun of Meredith's cravings. I poked fun at her peanut butter needs, joked about her weird nail polish fetish, even got so bold as to tease her about the sex.

But now I, Derek Shepherd, am having some pretty wicked cravings of my own. And they all have to do with the tiny, 7-pound, 6-ounce wriggling bundle of soft baby flesh lying in the crib in front of me.

For a week now, I've been the proud father of a beautiful baby girl. A baby girl that I literally can't stop looking at, touching, smelling. A baby girl who, if it's possible, already has me more besotted than her mother.

From the first moment she was born, my daughter had me completely head over heels. Her cry was the most amazing thing I'd ever heard, and the first time she opened her eyes and looked up at me, I felt something inside me solidify in a way that made me feel more permanent than anything ever had. You see, I thought I understood the concept of forever when I married Addison. We were arguably pretty young – in our twenties – and we made each other promises of forever. When our marriage ended, we retracted those promises, implying that eternity was somehow flexible. With Meredith, I made the same promise – and this time, having seen what a promise of forever does when it's broken, I was absolutely certain that it was going to stick. And I can honestly say that with Meredith, anything less than forever just isn't a possibility. I will love her until the day I die, and then some more after that.

But when I looked down at my daughter, I understood in a deep, primal, concrete way just what forever meant. Because, from this day forward, I will be a father. Regardless of what happens in my life, or my daughter's, I will forever be half of the equation that created this little person. I will forever be her dad – something no one else in the world will ever be able to say. And, while the thought generates a certain degree of terror, it also makes me understand the bigger picture a little bit better.

Because all of the drama of my life? The dead father, the overbearing sisters, the failed marriage, the turbulent start to my life with Meredith… it all fades away. Not that it wasn't important, but somehow it all fades into the background, eclipsed by this tiny person swaddled in a pink blanket.

So this, right here, this is my craving.

It's 2:30 in the morning. Meredith, still exhausted from giving birth and equally fatigued from breast-feeding, is out like a light in our bedroom, and I'm sitting here, next to my little girl's crib, watching her gaze up at me. In a few minutes, she'll probably cry to be fed, but for now she's just looking up at me, and already I can see in her eyes that she trusts me. To love her. To take care of her. To give her everything she needs, and a hundred times more. Those eyes that opened for the first time mere days ago already understand that I will lay my life down for her – a concept that she can't possibly grasp, but that she somehow instinctively seems to know.

I stare at her, and I am besieged by flashes of the things that stretch out ahead of us: First smiles. First steps. First words. First days of school. First dates. First kisses. First heartaches. Birthdays. Proms. Graduations. Weddings. Snowmen. Sandcastles. School pictures.

I lean into the crib and gently lift her into my arms, settling her against my chest and sinking into the rocking recliner in the corner of the nursery. I can hear her breath catch in her throat slightly, as she decides whether or not to cry, before she sighs and settles her head right over my heart, glancing up into my face for a moment before her eyes fall closed again. I almost want to shift so that she'll open those blue-gray eyes again and gaze at me, but I don't, instead sitting still and listening to the soft lullaby of her peaceful, easy breathing. I rest my lips against the still-soft crown of her head, inhaling the baby scent that emanates from her skin.

And, for the first time in my life, I understand the meaning of the word forever.

So there it is. I crave my daughter. The smell of her skin. The sound of her cry. The soft butterfly flutter of her heartbeat. The velvet feel of her skin. The deep blue-gray of her eyes that I hope doesn't change. The feeling I get when I look at her, equal parts contentment, joy, and awe.

If Meredith's peanut butter fixes gave her half as much satisfaction as this, I'll never make fun of her again.

---

**A/N: Thank you for reading, and thank you a hundred times over for all of the reviews. Given the amazing amount of positive feedback this piece has received, I am considering continuing it, although I will more than likely be doing so in a separate fic. I also have tentative plans for a third installment, if the second segment is well-received. Just so you know. :-)**


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